


come my fanatics

by Theboys



Series: yesteryear [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Apocalypse, M/M, Season/Series 05, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-30
Updated: 2016-08-30
Packaged: 2018-08-12 01:02:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7914286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theboys/pseuds/Theboys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If you asked him later what traveling through space and time was like, he’d tell you it was more like streaming sideways.<br/>He’d explain that it feels like being windblown, knocked in a horizontal line across the axis of your own life.</p>
<p>Sam Winchester is still alive on the Eve of the Apocalypse; he and his brother refuse to say Yes, and something continues to drag him back to a specific point in time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	come my fanatics

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alexa_dean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexa_dean/gifts).



> This is a plot bunny that's been festering for about a year now, and I finally just buckled down and scrawled it out in around six hours. This is sort of topsy-turvy, but hopefully it'll all come together in the end.
> 
> Title taken from the Electric Wizard album.

If you asked him later what traveling through space and time was like, he’d tell you it was more like streaming sideways.

He’d explain that it feels like being windblown, knocked in a horizontal line across the axis of your own life.

It’s disorientation in its basest form.

He licks across the last decade of his life on a breeze, thick trickle of air that descends just before a storm.

One second; he’s teetering on the edge of The Apocalypse, burnt bright by the flavor of the Devil, and his brother is huddled below on broken legs, and then he’s shuttled forward-behind. Into Now.

He comes to gradually; or he was never really under, recalls the area as if in a dream.

It’s gaudy, thick-hot trailer park air, and he knows where he is with a certainty that’s somehow worse than knowing that the Hounds plan to tear the remains of your only flesh and blood to marrow and ash.

It’s sickening because Sam’s got the distinct feeling that he’s lived this before and he shudders backwards, almost falls to his ass in the dust.

At his lowest; that’s where he meets his brother for the First Time.

-

The man is tall.

It’s a stupid thing to notice, not when he ought to be focused on which hand is the man’s dominant, his weakest side.

All Dean can see is the breadth of this stranger’s shoulders, the way he’s got scars littering the surface of heat-browned skin, a hatchling from something malevolent.

This man has five plus inches on him, maybe more, and his mouth is in a downturn that Dean doesn’t think ever smiles.

It’s this, he thinks; that’s what does him in.

-

Sam knocks him to the gravel, habit borne of long years. He recognizes his brother better than the stretch and slant of his own lungs and he hovers over Dean’s supine body with all the grace of a traitor.

Dean’s legs hang loose; he’s discordant in a way that doesn’t mesh with Sam’s memories of him and the idea makes him angrier than he’s got the right to be in the situation.

Sam doesn’t move, he knows Dean will startle at a sudden retreat and he doesn’t fancy being kicked in the nuts, even though he’s not sure Dean could make the height, long as Sam is now.

Sam’s not startled when his brother rears back anyway, eyes luminous in his too-pale face, scattered showers and thick lashes.

Sam catches his heel in one practiced grip, curls hands around the gentle twist of bone and winds his brother’s body into a prone position, turns Dean’s momentum into his own enemy.

He watches the huff of air exit his brother’s lungs, curls into dust below him and Dean’s piss-mad now, braces his upper body on bloodied palms but Sam has yet to release his ankle.

“Stay down or I’ll tear your Achilles,” Sam says, and the words are unbidden, wretched things, but he can’t meet his brother’s eyes.

They’re a few decades too early but Sam would rather saw out the betrayal than wait a few more years for his brother to disown his flesh.

“Easy to say when you got me pinned,” Dean spits, voice lilted and thick, heady with sweat-earth. Sam’s gonna drown in it, releases his brother so quickly he barely avoids a shiver when Dean presses his slick-self right up in Sam’s breathing space.

“That easy?” Dean questions, chest red-brick and heaving, little body stretching hard to meet Sam’s man, brawn-to-brawn.

“Yes,” Sam answers plainly, body slack with thinly veiled tension, “just that quick to put you down and keep you there.”

Dean’s boy-body is several degrees too warm and Sam breathes in the familiar scent of brimstone.

-

Another thing they don’t tell you about the Bend, the transcendence of space and time, is that you’ve got to continue to exist in both eras at once.

You don’t dissipate; there isn’t a lack of you There because you’re Here. 

Sam Winchester is still standing in front of the Horde, and his brother’s body is still broken and beneath his feet.

He can feel that flame as brightly as he can see the dirt collect in this Dean’s hair, the raw-bite of his child’s mouth, bruised and ripe for plucking.

Has his brother always been so eager for death or is that how he was sewn together, in the beginning?

-

“Nobody’s here,” Dean says, and Sam wants to clock him for idiocy; Sam could be a goddamn serial rapist for all Dean knows, but then Sam remembers that Dean likes to Lay all his Cards Out and if Sam expects nothing, the nothing will hit him that much harder.

Sam’s rubber-band thin by the stretch of time and he’s having trouble remembering what year he’s in, let alone what his brother’s doing being so goddamned friendly--for a Winchester.

“Look, motherfucker,” Dean says, and his neck is craned so far back that Sam follows the coagulation of sweat in the hollow of his throat. 

“If you’re gonna do something then get on with it--” 

This is all Sam hears as the high buzz in the air begins and he expands.

-

He’s upright when he comes into being again, but the earth is still scorched beneath him and he didn’t miss the way soot and debris cling to his lashes.

His eyes dart to his brother on instinct but Dean’s still motionless, and his legs are twisted up underneath the lean line of his body.

_ Look at your refusal _

Sam shakes his head and steps forward; he’s alone now; they’ve decided to reconvene, he supposes. He can’t leave Dean like this, even though his brother would want it that way.

Where is he gonna go like this? 

His hands ache, trembling minutely underneath the brawn of his jacket--John’s jacket, too big for Dean, uncomfortable settle around his shoulders.

The tree line is disintegrated; Sam’s memories are still stunted from being knocked back to ‘96, his brother pinned to the dust.

_ This isn’t my intention, Sammy _

Sam’s earth trembles.

-

The drag spins him back across the continuum, shoves him right back into the same year, and either his body is more acclimated to the shift or Sam is just resilient by nature, but he remembers where he is.

It’s 1996, Dean’s squatting in a trailer park just outside of Lafayette, and if Sam heads down into the city he can follow the Vermilion River right through it.

Dean’s not gonna move from his post, though, sixteen years old and by his lonesome; Sam’s at Bobby’s--he’s at Bobby’s, but Sam’s memory falters there and he can’t recall why they were separated.

He’s got a flash of Dean’s disbelief and then nothing; it’s like the curtain falling on an already-silent film.

“Fuck,” he mutters to himself, and then there’s the familiar click of the Taurus; he could roll over and die this instant and he’d always know the sound.

“You not smart enough to stay away, then,” Dean says, voice firm but still sun-tilted and Sam can’t understand why Dean’s so frail in his mind.

Sam raises his head; Dean’s no coward and he’ll shoot if it comes down to that, but he’s also not as impulsive as he leads his targets to believe. He’s assessing Sam’s every move and Sam wiggles his fingers in the air, wonders if Dean will recognize him after too long.

“Who--who the fuck are you, man,?” Dean stutters, and Sam keeps himself from smiling with a gargantuan effort.

“Put your gun down and I might tell you,” Sam says, voice resonate. Dean’s brow furrows; he’s in combats, tightly laced to the top, cut-off shorts and a shirt Sam can bet belongs to Dad, ZEP emblazoned across the side.

Sam takes stock of the weapon; Dean still has it but it’s not roadworthy anymore, sits heavy in the arsenal for Dean’s undeniable nostalgia.

The Impala is mangled at the bottom of a ravine, the crater that used to be Ford Field, and Sam’s mind coils like taffy, jolts him half-in, half-out.

PT92, hardwood finish and Sam knows it’s got a 15-round mag, and that it should have around 12 left; Dad would’ve counted.

“Well, fuck, since you asked so nicely,” Dean spits, so  _ mean  _ Sam thinks, and there’s nothing but surprise in the thought.

Sam figures he’s got about three minutes at most until Dean gets squirrelly and gives him a non-life threatening wound just to take him out of commission.

He doesn’t know if injuries translate back over to his time, nine years in the future, but he’s not exactly keen on finding out.

Sam moves his shoulders minutely, rolls them out and Dean’s gaze flickers upwards. He’s been trained to pay attention to something like that, but this Dean is sixteen and Sam is bigger. Sam is faster.

Sam’s practically operating outside of his own mind, here.

Sam uses the moment and pushes up from his calves, counts on his wingspan and increased speed to barrel straight into his brother’s chest.

His right hand catches Dean’s wrists, locking them together and dislodging his grip on the Taurus, and his left wraps around Dean’s waist, firm and taut. 

His hand spans almost the entirety of the circumference and then he’s twisting them in mid-air so that Dean lands atop of him.

Dean’s about 5’9, from the looks of him, doesn’t hit his big growth spurt until he’s eighteen, if Sam recalls correctly, and Sam would break his ribs at the speed he just put behind his tackle.

The thought is sobering, frightening, maybe, and Dean’s fingers flex uselessly in Sam’s grip, petal-mouth slanted open on a pant.

“How did you--” Dean’s brow furrows in confusion; he hasn’t had to trust his own body implicitly yet, and Sam aches for him.

“I can show you,” Sam says, mouth loosened of his own accord.

Dean’s still shell-shocked, ears pinkened against the honey of his hair. 

“You gonna let me up,” Dean says suddenly, face dark with how uncomfortable this position must be. Sam shudders and allows his brother to roll to the side, ass-first into the dirt.

Sam scoops up the Taurus and clicks the safety on, hands it back to Dean without a word.

Dean looks confused; he probably expected Sam to keep it. 

“I told you,” Sam says, “put it away and I’ll talk.”

Dean scrambles onto his knees, unblemished and pale; he burns so easy that Sam wonders why they let him out in the sun to begin with.

He’s got freckles lining the insides of his knees and his palms are flat on the ground; Taurus tucked into his waistband.

“What the fuck are you?” Dean says, voice hushed lower than Sam thought possible. “Last time. Last time you just--you fucking vanished, man, and I gotta--” Dean pauses, sucks his lower lip into his mouth in a tell that John forcibly breaks him of.

“My name is Sam,” he says, and his body gives a familiar shiver as he bleeds away from his brother.

-

Dean isn’t where he’s been left.

The fire has been almost stamped out but the air still bleeds of smoke and charred flesh.

It’s so thick that Sam could gag on it, but he’s so used to the smell that nothing comes of it. 

_ Sammy, we’re getting a little impatient over here. What’s so important you gotta leave us out of this three-way call you got going on? _

That’s not a memory, and Sam closes his eyes against the reverberation of someone else’s Sound in his own head.

_ Play nice and I’ll give him back. He’s mostly okay. Might need a wheelchair, though. You strong enough to carry him, then? _

Sam kneels, strips himself of the heavy overcoat and rolls his sleeves up.

“How about I come and find you?” Sam says, knows He can hear; all He does is wait for Sam to exhale. “He hasn’t moved in days. He’s  _ dead  _ Lucifer; you’re holding his corpse.”

Sam’s spine trickles, and he buries his fist in the dirt.

Not now. 

He can’t keep returning to his younger brother, unsullied by this life. He can’t keep running. 

_ Ah, now, don’t be a Sad Sack of Shit, Sammy. On a side note, poetry is my forte, huh? Huh? Weak crowd.  _

Sam’s entire back bends and he exhales through his teeth. The earth cracks beneath the pressure and Sam can feel the beginnings of an earthquake; there’s more to suffer.

_ You don’t know. He’s awake and muttering for you. Telling you to stay away. Brothers, you know? _

There’s a pause in the tirade, and Sam hauls in his air, shakes on bended knees. 

_ Can’t live with ‘em, let them die for you. _

It’s no surprise, really, when he ceases to exist.

-

More time has passed when Sam returns, and this time, it’s night.

Sam doesn’t know the layout of this place as well as he’d like. Normally he would’ve scoured it over with Dad and Dean, reluctant but aware of the necessity.

Sam; that Sam hadn’t stayed there and his understanding of this area isn’t as stellar as he’d hoped.

He remembers which one is Dean’s though, eggshell-white and shoved into the back, broken for the road.

It’s upheld by cinder-blocks, heat-sweat in humid Louisiana air.

Sam’s right up against it before he realizes that Dean probably will blow his brains out if he attempts to break in during the dead of night.

Sam rocks back on his heels, fixes his gaze on the constellation above.

He almost misses the ricochet of the screen door as Dean props it open, hair flattened on one side of his head. His eyes are bleary but focused and Sam’s pleased to see that he’s not unarmed, not that Sam thought he would be.

His face relaxes at the sight of Sam, but then his spine stiffens. 

“You tell me what you are right the fuck now or I gotta kill you.” Dean’s voice quavers and Sam suppresses the urge to cradle his brother’s face in one hand.

“I gotta kill you, man. You’re not--you can’t disappear like that. You can’t jump in an’ out of life like that,” Dean says, and Sam knows that’s not what’s frightening.

Dean’s not scared of the supernatural but he is wary of what he doesn’t understand, and Sam doesn’t present as malevolent but he’s not exactly forthcoming, either.

“Can I come inside?” 

Dean places his other hand on the Taurus, holds the door open by the jaunt of his pale hipbone.

Sam’s in his space so quickly that his hands quiver and Sam doesn’t know what to do with this Dean, whole and unmarred, eyes feverish with an innocence Sam doesn’t think even he ever had.

“Can I?” Sam repeats, straightens to his full height, closer to 6’5 than anything else, people take him for smaller when he wants it so.

Dean trembles, so fine that Sam would’ve missed it if he hadn’t wanted it.

Dean doesn’t have a choice in the matter and he backs up, feet shoved haphazardly into high-tops, chest naked and flushed.

Sam steps forward, bends his head on instinct and closes the door behind him, palm broad on the surface.

“I can travel through time.” Sam says it carefully, like he’s got it under control, like it’s not something that’s being done  _ to  _ him, rather than of him.

“So you keep coming back here,” Dean says in disbelief, and Sam doesn’t blame him. 

“Lafayette, Louisiana, 1996,” Dean continues, twists the gun in dry palms. He looks up at Sam through a fringe of lash and Sam keeps a straight face.

“You didn’t--man, you could’ve gone anywhere. If you’re telling me the truth,” Dean says skeptically, “you can do whatever you want.”

_ That’s the problem. I’m not my own man. _

“Why d’you keep coming to see me?” Dean says the last slowly, like it’s just occurred to him. 

“I know what you do. I know who your father is,” Sam says, puts on his earnest face and Dean finally looks up at him and stumbles away so fast Sam’s afraid he’s gone and hurt himself.

“Do--d’you know my brother, too?” Dean’s backed against decrepit wallpaper, peeling lemon-lime and Sam holds himself very still.

“Your brother?”

Dean nods; his hair is buzzed close to his head; John’s latest attempt. Dean’s eyes swim like glass and Sam’s breathing up all the air in this room.

“M’brother. His name is Sam,” Dean says cautiously, and Sam’s stomach gives a sick lurch.

“Younger than you,” Sam says, and now Dean’s nodding, peeling his body away and stepping closer, with that red mouth and bright eyes and now is the time for him to blink back to his era.

“He does the same thing with his eyes,” Dean says, determined, and then his face pales. 

“I never thought he’d get as tall as you, though,” and Sam’s knees threaten to buckle. Dean’s never been stupid, but he did think he could’ve held out a little longer.

“I can’t see him,” Sam says firmly, and Dean laughs, twisted. “You can’t see yourself, you mean?”

Dean reaches out and pops Sam against the shoulder but it falls lower because Dean can’t reach yet. “What the fuck-all kinda trouble you got us in now?” Dean says with the resiliency of a youth that’s never known anything else.

“How come you got the superpowers,” Dean grumbles, and Sam’s eyes blink tears away because Dean doesn’t know he’s gonna die, that it’s his little brother that’s going to do him in.

He doesn’t know that his legs are shattered and the world’s going to Hell.

He’s surveying Sam with a kind of open honesty that Sam’s always taken for granted, and he straightens again, leaves himself bare.

“All this power,” Dean clucks, inadvertently stepping closer to Sam, small fingers outstretched, “an’ you come to this shithole.”

_ To you _

“Who says that’s all there is to it?” Sam says, and then he’s boxing his brother in, caging him against the wall until he can actually hear Dean’s pulse clicking in his throat.

“I know your father. I know you, Dean.” Sam bends his head so that their foreheads meet in the middle and Dean’s lower lip is slick with spit, swollen and flushed.

Sam thumbs it, catches the flesh onto one callused thumb and it spans Dean’s entire mouth.

Dean makes a strangled sound, more like a keen, and Sam presses harder, splits Dean’s lips wide.

“Your turn to tell me why you’re here by yourself,” Sam breathes his words right into his brother’s mouth and Dean’s hands come up to claw at Sam’s biceps.

“Din’t I ever tell you?” Dean whispers, words obstructed by Sam’s fingers but he can’t bring himself to step back and away.

“No,” Sam says, and it rankles. “Dad probably told you not to. Will tell you not to,” Sam amends, and Dean’s cheeks color.

“Skinwalker,” Dean says finally. “A--a coven summoned it about a month ago, but they got it controlled.” 

Sam releases his brother’s mouth and Dean arches up for more contact but the motion is accidental and Sam watches him settle back down onto the soles of his feet.

Sam likes the way reaching looks on his brother, slow stretch of spine, and he’s not exactly sure when he took a hard left into Fucked Up but he’s careening down the highway nevertheless.

“They put a binding spell on it but they’re using it to--to hunt.” Dean’s ears are candied now and his warm palms haven’t left Sam’s arms.

His voice is gravel when he speaks; it’s a timbre he only unleashes in the bedroom and when Dean’s entire body shakes he thinks it might be time to get the hell outta dodge.

“What are they hunting?” Sam says, but Dean’s looking down again, won’t answer.

“What the fuck are they hunting?” Sam repeats, and Dean’s feet scramble for purchase as Sam pins him between his bulk and the wall, displaces another sliver of wallpaper.

Dean’s eyes are so wide they can see sound and his mouth has dropped low again and Sam’s so thick against his own thigh that his heartbeat is connected to the pump of blood.

Dean’s eyes are wet and he looks relieved when Sam blanks out for the third time.

-

This time is different.

He blinks forward and the world is grey and everything happens so fast that Sam can barely catch the gist of it.

There’s white and a smile and a laugh that sounds like Sam and Dean’s head is bloody but unbowed. 

His brother looks up and Sam follows the line of wound down one cheek and it’s him that's reaching out--but maybe it's his shadow-self, the one who belongs to 1996, humid and sticky. 

Dean can't see him regardless and Lucifer’s laugh echoes, tight and controlled. 

Sam has yet to face him again. 

-

He doesn't shuffle backwards after the strange non-dream and that's more disorienting than if he had. 

The city is barren, plumes of smoke rising from rubble. 

The earth hisses around him and his clothes are cleaner than they should be, collar stretched wide around a dark neck. 

He hasn't seen a person in at least two miles and that's wrong because Sam’s heading back to the encampment and that means that no one is left. 

He fiddles with the blade in his pocket; it’s blessed iron and it knicks his thumb; he's careless. 

It’s covered in runes, those of subjugation, of resolve. There's even one for the God Tiwaz, as if that'll be what gives him the edge. 

There's a shrill sound overhead, so loud it batters Sam’s ears and he hunches over, knees to dust. 

“The mighty fall last,” Sam hears, tilts his head back where the blood leaking from stained ears trickles down the sides of his neck. 

“You were tasked with the light and you dampen the fire,” the voice continues; it's a thunder from the heavens and Sam thinks the end is nigh; is this God?

Fox Theatre has a new main attraction, dark and cerulean, off-brand tan against the stage. 

Sam measured the wingspan, burnt into mahogany. His feathers fanned out for miles, arching into velvet curtains, staining the wood. 

His eyes were hollowed out. 

His name is carved into his forehead; Lucifer keeps a tally and his skin is split open by the scalpel, by his brother’s hand. 

Dean’s not seen it and it seems he never will, but it's not Castiel in the sky because he's been martyred and Sam’s knees lock together. 

_ Spare me the theatrics, brother. You'll have yours when I get mine. I love a good brawl.  _

Sam’s ears clear and when he looks up at the sky the sun is blotted. 

The whine begins once more and this time he's focused on the shift. 

-

He can tell that time is tilted when he gets back, gets the sickening feeling that he's not supposed to be here.

He's streamlining to Lafayette for a reason but this place is dark and he has no memory of it. 

There are cicadas in the foreground and everything is hot-loud, sweltering in what must be the summer. 

There’s dried blood in the corners of his fingernails and his bad knee locks at he stumbles over a hill he couldn't see. 

A door rattles. 

Sam’s got his blade in one hand, lowered to his side because he doesn't know what's out here and he's not about to cause a ruckus so late in the evening. 

The door clatters shut afterwards and Sam tilts his head up to the sky, counts the stars aimlessly. 

The grass is tall, up to even Sam’s knees and it’s parting; something small is running through it, collides with Sam’s shin so hard it cries out. 

He's got the blade pressed against the flat of his spine so quickly he doesn't recall putting it away, because it's Dean and he knows. 

Dean’s young enough to still be towheaded, bright buzz cut flat to his small head and his bubblegum mouth is stained wide, heaving breaths.

He's in a baseball tee, too big on him, runs below bruised knees and he's resting on his elbows, neck hung back to stare  _ upupup  _ at Sam. 

“Don't cry,” Sam commands, been around enough children to know how they react when he's a stranger. 

Sam is calm and he can practice gentility but he is broad and he has murdered without compunction and innocence can sense that. 

“Not cryin’,” Dean pouts and Sam’s breath hitches funny. 

The cicadas upswell in cadence and Dean stands. 

He's no more than seven, maybe six, and his lashes form wet clumps on his cheeks; Sam can barely see them. 

“Came back,” Dean says shrilly, then he clamps a dirty little palm over half of his face. 

“Got a haircut,” he points to his head and it's haphazard; Dad got better over the years, Sam notes. 

“Sammy din’t like it much; he can't grab it no more.” Dean’s mouth splits on a grin, baby teeth crowded into a too small mouth; he's missing two. 

“Can I fly again?” Dean stretches his arms wide, flings them out with so much trust and Sam bends at the knee, creaks like death and hoists his big brother into the air. 

Dean cackles again, shuts his bruised little mouth and there's a nasty abrasion forming on his small temple. 

Sam’s body shudders with sudden, definable anger and he wonders where the fuck John is. 

“You're the--you're the tallest person I ever saw. You're taller’n Daddy.” Dean pats at Sam’s cheeks, baby-smooth palms over sandpaper. 

“Bad men can't get me up high,” Dean recites, says it plainly like it's been repeated to him before, and then he's winding those tiny limbs so tight around Sam’s neck that he's on the verge of choking. 

Sam’s palm spans the entirety of Dean’s back, five-fingered star, nape of neck to Dean’s nub of a tailbone. 

Dean adjusts himself, buries his face into Sam’s neck and chuffs out his air. 

“C’n you stay this time? Daddy is sleep but me an’ Sammy; you can stay in our bed.” Dean’s brow furrows like he's thinking. 

“Sammy is lots of fun but he's real small cause he's two, so I gotta hold him, and you can lay on the other side.” Dean is firm on this point and Sam cradles him so close little bones creak. 

“Alright,” Sam says, voice raw and sore. “I'll sleep by the door, little man.”

Dean yawns and Sam can hold him up with the one hand, forearm curved under Dean’s butt. 

The door suddenly crashes open, self-same one that Dean had tumbled out of five minutes prior and John is  _ slacking.  _

“Dean?! Dean?! Dean, baby, where are you?” John screams, shirtless, shoes undone, Colt in one hand. Sam can't make out much more of his father than that. 

“Dean, sweetheart, can you answer Daddy?” John’s voice is thick with terror and Sam’s world begins to stutter around them. 

Dean’s eyes are so wide Sam can see the whites and Sam’s leaving, hates saying bye with Dean so terrified. 

He leans down, settles Dean back onto grass-carpet and places a palm on his brother’s head. 

“That's it, baby,” Sam sighs, “go on back to your Dad. He loves you,” he adds on an afterthought, and Dean sucks his lip into his mouth and a gunshot rings loud. 

-

“You knew.”

It's the first thing Sam says when he spins out of early childhood and Louisiana opens up before him. 

He's getting better able to control it, even though he's still pretty sure this isn't anywhere near his own doing. 

Dean’s lean little body is caught between the bricks of a coffeehouse in the middle of the city, something called the Lab and he twitches so hard against Sam that he thinks he's hurt him. 

“Said to myself. Said, what the hell could make John Winchester’s eldest not shoot first and ask questions later.” Sam’s burning mad and Dean’s toes scrabble to find the ground. 

“You've seen me before.”

Dean’s mouth is open and stupid and his eyes are thick-damp with tears and Sam’s probably rubbing fresh skin raw against brick. 

Sam allows him to settle back to the ground before grabbing bird-fragile hips and dragging him close. 

“Why didn't you tell me?” Sam whispers, cradles Dean’s cheek where it rests, too warm in his hand. 

“Lemme go. Get off,” Dean exhales, and Sam, of course, presses further forward. “You knew him. Me. The other me,” Sam says, and it would sound insipid if it didn’t make so much damned sense.

“I dunno--Jesus, I don’t fucking know what you’re talking about,” Dean says, and he’s shaking his head but Sam’s undeterred. 

“I didn’t know you were you,” Dean spits, eyes glassy, “if that’s what you’re saying.” 

Sam takes stock of their surroundings for the first time, glances at the bustle of people ignoring the altercation in the narrow opening.

“What’re you doing here?” Sam wonders, and Dean’s sneakers scrape against the residual trash under his feet.

“Dad would’ve never let you out here alone like this,” Sam muses, “not on a case,”  _ and not looking like that _

But Dean’s mouth has firmed and he’s about two seconds away from shoving Sam back. “You’re bigger’n me but that don’t mean you’re older,” Dean says and Sam’s angry.

He’s sawdust and wrath and Dean’s making it worse. Dean knocks into every button Sam has and that hasn’t changed with the loss of a few years.

“I’m older than you now, I’m stronger than you, and so help me God, if I find out you’ve been putting yourself in danger, I’ll make Dad look like a dream.” Sam’s chest heaves with exertion and the world is greying around its edges; he’ll be leaving soon.

Dean’s eyes are wide again, startled and feral and Sam’s got no justification for what comes next. He can feel the shift and he leans down-down, presses furious lips to raw ones and Dean responds immediately, slings his arms around Sam’s neck and  _ dangles  _ there; pubescent determination.

Sam’s hands tighten on hips and there’s an insane moment of abject horror and then Dean’s whining into his mouth.

Gone.

-

Sam doesn’t have any time to acclimate himself.

He stumbles forward once and hears a blistering cry, rough and childlike.

He drops to his knees instantly, frees his blade with a snick and crouches forward. His head’s ringing fierce and he’s never felt the urge to vomit before now.

“S-stop, puh-please,” he hears, plaintive and  _ small.  _ Inappropriately small. 

He’s rising, caution be damned because he  _ understands  _ now and he’s in the middle of a street and it’s night. There’s a row of townhomes on the opposite side of the road, most of them darkened by nightfall.

The one on the left corner is illuminated, pale-glow of lamplight shining through almost-sheer curtains. There are two shadows dancing in front of it, tall, a man, probably, and the other is a woman, but she’s hunched over and the man is crouched in order to better speak, Sam assumes.

There’s a coffee shop on the opposite end and what looks like a family-owned grocery store and all-in-all it’s a four store town.

He takes this in in a matter of seconds and then turns to face the other end of the street. It’s the one near the grocery store and while that’s dark, there’s a flash of color at the far end of the building and Sam’s dropped in on something horrible.

He takes off at a dead sprint, light on his feet after years,

_ Gonna grow up heavy, Sam. Counteract that. Run it again. _

He’s not so concerned with silence right now; he wants the interloper to hear him coming. He wants him to feel goddamned afraid--

He careens around the corner, takes in the scene with precision.

He pinpoints the man’s hands and his stance, bent double to reach down. 

Dean’s small for his age. 

Sam didn’t notice it before but Dean’s speech suggests that he’s around six but he’s four or five in stature and he’s terrified.

His eyes are blank saucers and there are hands--someone has their hands wrapped around Dean’s torso and they’re pulling him upwards. Dean’s mouth is slanted on cries but he’s not making anymore noise.

Sam can’t think, he can’t see past red and so he hurls silver and it catches at the top of his neck, rends through cervical vertebrae and the blood splatter comes crawling out of the man’s mouth.

Dean whines, first sound Sam’s heard and it catapults him into motion. 

The man is crumpling forward, about to drop 200+ pounds onto Sam’s brother and Sam reaches out a long arm and hauls him back, drags the heavy body beside and behind his own.

Sam spares a glance for the slope of the man’s neck, loss of connectivity, and then he releases.

Dean’s eyes are screwed shut now, there’s a sliver of light peeking into the murkiness, and Dean’s cheeks are wet.

Sam’s halfway to scooping him up; this is the same child Sam cradled the other day, but Dean’s gnawing on his bottom lip to distraction, fists curled up tight.

His hair is longer than before though, split ends, cradling the round of his brother’s face. 

“Dean, Dean, baby,” Sam tries, but his brother’s lips fall apart and he scrambles backwards, hands raw, ass dragging against dirt.

“M’gonna call my Daddy,” Dean threatens, slight wobble to his voice and his eyes aren’t yet open. “He’s gonna--stay ‘way! He’s gonna stab you--” Dean sobs and Sam’s stomach roils violently.

This Dean doesn’t know him.

“Dean,” Sam tries, halts his progress and drops to one knee, habitual effort for children.

“Dean, can you open your eyes for me?” Sam bites his tongue as Dean begins to visibly tremble, and Sam knows it’s only a matter of time before John comes looking around.

Dad’s not as omniscient as he’ll come to be in later years; he’s unused to rearing children without his wife by his side.

“Dean,” he tries, lower than before, and Dean’s eyes peek open a sliver.

“That’s it, baby,” Sam encourages, and Dean coughs up phlegm and his eyes stutter wide all the way.

“Are you gonna--you gonna grab me?” Dean asks plaintively, and Sam wonders if he can come back and murder the man twice, dislocate his spine and show Dean that he’s really, truly safe.

He can’t save his brother from the nightmares; two more will grow in its place.

“Look,” Sam motions behind him, “look; he’s gone, alright? He’s gone and we need to get you back to your family,” Sam says, and Dean’s still only six because he stands upright and grins toothily into Sam’s face.

“Hokay,” Dean says, water still clinging to lashes, “we gotta hurry; Sammy’s gonna wake up an’ start cryin’ if I’m gone too long,” Dean says, swipes at his eyes ineffectually.

Sam chest constricts and he rises, heedless of the way his body continues to stretch until Dean’s lower lip begins to tremble and he tucks one fist inside the other.

“Wanna fly, little man?” Sam asks, remembers his father swinging him up over his shoulder, airplane whoosh until Sam was delirious with joy.

Dean’s forehead crinkles and Sam leans back down, telegraphs his movement as slowly as he possibly can.

“C’mere,” Sam says, smiles wide and wrinkles his nose. “C’mon little man,” he says, “you’re not scared of me, are you?” Sam cocks his head to the side and prays that Dean trusts him, even though he knows he’s a stranger and Dean would be better off running.

Especially the way he is now, tainted blood and a sinner’s grin. 

“You show me your house, okay?” Sam opens his arms and waits, holds his breath a beat too long as Dean slowly inches forward, scuffed Chucks underfoot.

His jeans spill over the edges of his shoes, little laces undone and Sam needs to save the world. He needs to give this Dean something to grow up in, but it’s all damned regardless.

Dean tilts his head back, fragile-eyes, and his hair parts in the middle.

Sam takes the offering for what it is and lifts, and Dean squeals once and then buttons his lips shut.

“Sorry,” he whispers, little-boy loud. “I’ll be quiet, m’sorry,” Dean repeats, and Sam’s palm covers his brother’s head on instinct.

He presses Dean’s face into his neck and Dean hesitates before winding his arms tight, afraid of the fall.

“Are you ever scared, mister?” Dean murmurs, and Sam’s body vibrates with how much he loves this child.

“I guess,” Dean continues as they begin walking, not that Sam has any idea where Dean’s staying now, how to get him back home.

“You’re big,” Dean sighs. “Daddy’s big too,” he says, and Sam hefts him higher on his hip. 

“Nothing’s gonna get you up here,” Sam says, cards his fingers through down. “Nothing bad’s gonna touch you when I’m here.” 

Dean nods frantically and then raises his head; his face is flushed. He points to the house Sam first noticed, the one with the shadows.

“He said he was gonna h-help Daddy,” Dean huffs, eyes squinted shut. “When it was daytime, s-said he would h-help--” Dean chokes, and Sam doesn’t think he’ll survive this child.

He doesn’t rightly know how his father looked down on Dean and thought any of this was okay. 

He remembers the desecration of his brother’s body and figures that love is blind.

He deposits his brother on the doorstep, tries the doorknob; it’s unlocked. The house is warded; Sam can see the salt, and the sigils, but the line is broken from Dean’s dalliance.

John’s still in the living room and Sam cradles his own head in his hands as he wonders how Dean slipped past--where is their father?

It’s not the man that Sam remembers, but he doesn’t have the time to contemplate because he’s got to get Dean inside.

“Comin’ back?” Dean asks, Sam’s hand on the knob. 

Sam places a palm on Dean’s back and nudges him forward, turns the handle so light spills forth.

“Always,” Sam says seriously, catches the slice-of-watermelon grin on his brother’s face and the world melts away.

-

Time startles him right back to Lafayette and this time Sam lands on his feet.

He’s not near the heat of the day or the sun-crinkle of Dean’s trailer, but lightning splices the sky above his head and he feels the first drop of rain on his knuckles.

He left his blade in that motherfucker’s neck and now all he’s down to is a Beretta, hastily stolen off of another body ten years from now.

It’s sleek and it’ll do the job but it sits strangely in his hands and he’s aiming in the dark.

There’s something out here, thick and rancorous and Sam doesn’t know what he’s looking for.

Light splits the clouds again and he sees it, crouched against the earth, all-fours. It’s a wolf, no mistaking it, but there’s red on its muzzle and it’s significantly bigger than average, obsidian with a streak of cream lining its back.

It’s hunting.

Sam knows that this is what Dean’s after--and more frighteningly, Dad, but he also knows this is out of Dean’s league.

His brother doesn’t know shit about covens, not yet, and if this skinwalker’s bound, you can’t kill it in any of the regular ways.

Sam hunkers down, glances at the sky and then back across the clearing.

He’s in a subset of the forest and the wolf turns its head back, looks directly at Sam. It’s got comprehension in its eyes and then it grins, visceral and sharp in the dark.

It runs.

Sam takes off after it, low hopes for keeping up but he doesn’t want to lose the trail.

_ You’ll not save him _

The voice is unexpected and loud, careens through Sam’s consciousness and he’s sick to  _ death  _ of the invasion of his own mind.

Skinwalker’s just a person who sold their soul and gained the supernatural in payment and now Sam’s got to listen to it taunt him, breathless jaunt through the trees.

Another jagged arc and then Sam sees him, framed by trees, dead center.

He’s unnaturally still but that’s because his chest is split wide with blood and Dean’s head lolls backwards. 

He’s levitating, and if Sam focuses he can hear the chanting, guttural Latin and what sounds like the bastardization of Hebrew.

Dean’s arms are outstretched above his head and the skinwalker paces before him, yellow-gold eyes bright.

Sam doesn’t have a chance in hell of killing these witches and disabling the skinwalker and did they bring him here to watch his brother die?

Is this when John saves his oldest and a story Sam’s never been told?

_ He’s not yours to save _

The skinwalker is vicious, focused on Sam’s guilt and his greed for his brother’s life and it heats his blood.

The anger roils through him and the earth shimmers. He can’t leave  _ now _ .

The feeling, dissipation, tumbles through his bones and knocks him to his knees. Dean’s head hangs back.

The dirt beneath his soles shivers and Sam grabs a handful, falls to his palms.

The recitation swells to a crescendo; they’re going to murder his brother too soon and then there’s a pause.

The world filters to a slow crawl and the skinwalker is turning, heavy and cumbersome but he’s moving as if through molasses and Sam rises at full speed.

The witches are raising their hands but Sam watches it all as if from the outside, like a movie on rewind.

He tilts his head to the side and reaches out his hand. 

The result is instantaneous; Dean tumbles to the ground, 70 mph to -5 and Sam catches him, settles him in the air and deposits him onto the ground, leaves and twigs entangled around his body.

“No,” Sam says--is he laughing?--but he winds his palm in a circle and he watches night fade to day and the forest clears; skinwalker retreats back into the recesses and the witches disappear one by one, fade into nothing as they scatter to their retreat.

Dean himself rises from the ground and his chest heals; he sets his neck upright. The blade that was buried in his side removes itself and flings past Sam; he watches with one hand before him.

Dean tumbles away behind it and then everything is empty.

He drags himself back.

-

Dean comes barreling out of aluminum, alloy corner melding together to form the ripple effect.

He adjusts his waistband with his left hand, the other shading fair skin. Sam lurches with the familiar gesture; the Dean of his time does the same thing, except he doesn’t squint against the sun any longer.

Dean’s moving, mouth pressed firmly together and he’s muttering under his breath, eyes darting to the other mobile homes littering the gravel.

“Stay put, Dean,” Dean says, bends down to lace up a boot. 

“I gotta drop Sammy off. Wait for me,” Dean continues, and Sam’s face crinkles into a grin.

“Why’re you in such a rush?” he calls out, and Dean startles so badly he falls on his ass once again.

“You again,” Dean spits, petulance in his being and Sam’s just so goddamned pleased to see him alive and whole that he grins bigger.

“Yeah, me again. Sam Winchester, at your service.” Dean starts at the admission, first verbal confirmation that Sam is indeed his little brother, and he bites down at his lip.

“You can’t stop me,” Dean tempts, and Sam’s smile fades.

“You’re going after it alone,” Sam says, and Dean sucks his lip into his mouth.

“Damn straight,” he continues briskly, making to shove past Sam. “Now get outta my way or I’ll beat this Sam’s ass since I can’t reach yours.”

Sam wants to laugh but it catches in his throat because Sam’s about twelve hours behind Dean’s capture and Dean doesn’t know anything.

“You gonna let it kill you?” Sam says it callously and if anything, Dean’s face further hardens.

“I can fucking do my  _ job,  _ Sam,” he spits, and Sam recoils at the vitriol in his voice.

“You’ve been saving me my whole life,” Sam says quietly, and Dean’s eyes flutter shut. “Let me do the same for you,” he continues, and Dean sways closer, unconsciously.

“You always been there when I needed you,” Dean says quietly, and Sam shrugs. 

“There’s probably--you don’t even know about ‘em all yet, but I want--Dad’s never left me alone like this, Sammy.” Dean releases his lip and it hangs swollen.

“I want him to know I can help. For when I kill it. When I help him kill the thing that--” Sam’s heart thunders and he can’t hear the unbridled pain for the monster that took their mother.

He’s spent too long in search of absolution and it’s raw-fresh here, in this time.

“You know I travel through time,” Sam says expansively, and Dean nods, confused.

“I’ve seen this--” Sam waves a hand around., “I know how this ends. There’s a coven and the skinwalker and you’re bleeding your own blood, baby,” Sam says, desperate, and Dean flinches at the endearment.

“I turned it back. I turned it back around because I want--” Sam doesn’t know what he wants, but he’s trapped in this paradox of Lafayette and he grabs Dean by the waist and sort of hauls him close.

“There’s no scenario where I’m gonna let you die. There’s no time or space where you’ll get hurt,” Sam breathes, and Dean’s lashes are so close, tangled together on his pale face.

“C’mere,” Sam whispers, “Jesus, c’mere,” and Dean stumbles a little because Sam’s fairly dragging them backwards, finds the trailer on blind faith and the sun soaks into his hand as he rattles it open and allows it to slam behind them.

It’s almost barren in here; tasteless mattress fifteen years older than this Dean and a down comforter with feathers spilling out of holes.

Dean’s hands find Sam’s chest and he hangs on for dear life, cheeks tinted blush.

“Do you know how much I love you?” Sam asks, and Dean whimpers so loud it unnerves him and he tries to back away.

“Your Sam doesn’t know how to tell you and you’d never listen,” Sam says, and then he bends Dean’s body double, one hand on his lower back for balance.

Dean’s mouth drops wide and Sam fills it with his tongue, carves out a home and tastes the roof of his brother’s mouth.

Dean sags in his embrace and then Sam pulls him upright again, knocks him against the mattress. Dean falls gracefully, coordinated in his limbs, and his legs knock open wider, ‘v’ of compliance.

Sam settles between them like he’s home and Dean’s resting all his weight on his hands.

“Please,” Dean says, kitten-innocence and Sam’s gonna wreck him. Sam’s come all the way back for this.

He drags jeans down firm thighs and Dean’s underwear is white and he blushes when he looks down. 

“You’re so damn pretty like this,” Sam says, years of experience, and Dean’s face scrunches tight.

“Sammy,” Dean sputters, and Sam laughs, gravel in his tone.

“You color like this all over, baby?” Sam asks, because he can see the rock of Dean’s dick now and it jumps so pretty when Sam calls him pet names, slick-sheen of it quivering to meet Dean’s belly.

“Shirt too, sweetheart,” Sam murmurs and Dean complies without looking up, head-of-wheat bowed.

“Look at me,” Sam commands, and Dean’s eyes flick to his. 

“M’gonna eat you out, gonna lick your hole like candy because I’ve been waiting all my life to taste you,” Sam breathes, and Dean’s dick shivers again and he keens, hips circling the air.

Sam unbuttons his pants, drags them just low enough to hang onto his hips.

Dean’s staring fixedly at the beginnings of his cock, dark hair surrounding his shaft. Dean’s lighter, Sam can tell, and his brother’s ears are tip-turned pink. 

“You wanna see it, baby?” Sam asks, and Dean's lashes flicker over sullied cheeks. 

“S-shut up,” Dean tries, fists his hands in the sheets. “You gonna grow up to be this mouthy?” Dean’s mouth cracks open on a smile but it’s watery and Sam wants to pull it away entirely.

“Nah,” Sam says quietly, “gonna fill your mouth, though,” and Dean’s legs shiver, lean youth and sun-brushed skin.

“F-fuck,” Dean stutters, and Sam leans down to suckle the head of Dean’s cock into his mouth, lets it rest on the tip of his tongue, acrid taste.

Dean’s hips swivel and Sam presses one palm to the tender midpoint of Dean’s abdomen and holds him in place, fingers drumming in amusement.

He comes up for air, doesn’t go any further than the crown and his brother’s legs spasm, coltish in their excitement and Sam can’t dredge up any regret for the way he’s planning on ruining Dean for anyone else.

Sam goes down for more, licks a stripe up the shaft and suckles hard; Dean keens in surprise. 

Sam shoves Dean’s legs up to his quivering chest and presses his thumb against that splinter of dry heat. Dean nudges down into the feeling and Sam looks up at him, wide and frank.

“I---I dunno what your Dean--; I don’t know what to do,” Dean whispers, and Sam’s gotta know, before they go any further.

“You ever done this? With anyone?” Sam pauses. “With me? Another me?” Sam doesn’t exactly know how this works, this extension and doublethought of who he is.

“N-no,” Dean says, snags his lip into his mouth as Sam unconsciously presses deeper, thumb catching on that sensitive rim of skin.

“M’gonna take you apart,” Sam promises; he’s heady and he can almost taste Dean’s fear. “Look at me, baby,” Sam says and Dean follows suit with no compunction.

“I’m gonna eat you alive.” 

Sam’s always been a talker during sex, likes to see what his words do to his partner, but it usually becomes less and less coherent as time goes on.

He doesn’t know how to shut himself off, but with the way Dean’s undulating against him,; he doesn’t think he needs to.

He’s got no idea if anyone’s ever told this Dean how precious he is, how hard he works for so little reward. 

He can’t recall whether or not John ever looked at his special boy with pride in his eyes, or grabbed Dean by the nape of the neck and really told him how  _ proud  _ he was.

Dean’s eyes roll back in his head and Sam needs in him yesterday. “How’m I gonna get in here?” he slurs, taps at the gentle wrinkle of skin.

Dean gasps and drags his pale legs so open it must hurt, propels his knees into the unblemished bone of his chin.

“L-like this, please, p-please,” he says, halted and wanting and Sam’s gonna take him. He’s gonna take this boy wherever he goes from here.

“Turn over, baby,” Sam nudges and flips Dean bodily, wraps palms around skinny hips and drags him up, ass high and elbows braced on the spring of exposed mattress.

It’s high and round, slightly browned from where Dean’s been sunning by water and sparring with baby Sam.

Sam grips it tightly, notes the five-pointed star of his digits in flesh and Dean rocks his hips back in desperation.

“I got--Sammy,” he says, “I got some--I’m alone here an’ Dad says m’not allowed to have--to have anyone over but I got some stuff--s’in the corner, Sammy,” he gurgles and he’s too articulate.

Sam turns his head to the left and spies the well-used tube of jelly, bent and crinkled with heat. It’s half covered with little boy boxers, slightly soiled, and Sam thinks about gagging Dean with them. Letting his little brother taste himself, but Sam likes to hear his whines, wants to tell Dean he’s lovely just so he can watch him moan in response.

Sam nudges it toward himself and then drags Dean’s ass wide, blows cool air over his hole and dives right in, tongue flattened over the furl.

Dean pushes back instantly, so goddamned responsive, and Sam hums in appreciation.

“W-what--Jesus, Sammy--what the f-fuck,” he cries, and Sam grips his ass tighter, drags it so wide that the flesh strains under the onslaught.

Sam stabs his tongue deeper, laps up Dean’s secrets and Dean’s grinding back so wildly that he threatens to unseat himself.

Sam’s a patient man but he’s been waiting for 25 years and the world is a flash-burn of ruin. 

Sam dexterous by nature and slicks one finger up and nudges it alongside his tongue, presses it so far within that Dean falls flat on his face and Sam’s here to worship.

“That’s it,” Sam grunts, chin slick and damp from spit, Dean’s hole loose and pliable. “C’mon, sweetheart, open up for me.,” Sam’s out-of-his-mind, and Dean can’t even see him.

“God,” Dean says, and Sam slams his middle deep and starts to finger-bang him in earnest, slicks him so spacious that Dean starts  _ crying,  _ great big sobs that Sam wants to lick out of his mouth.

“You love this,” Sam says, “you love my fingers and my dick and you love  _ me,” _ Sam says, speaks it into truth and Dean’s pushing his little dick into pea-green sheets and Sam thinks he’s gonna shoot.

“L-love you, Sammy,” Dean sputters, “please gimme your dick, give it to me,  _ fuck,” _ he finishes and Sam jerks his fingers free, watches his hole struggle to close against Sam’s ownership.

Sam’s violet and leaking, rubs the shine of his crown against the gape, taps it so hard that Dean’s small body lurches forward.

Dean’s hands are tangled in his pillows and Sam wants to hear him, fiercely. He reaches down, wraps his palm around the nape of Dean’s neck and drags him up.

Dean’s air is tangled in his throat and his neck hangs backwards into Sam’s grip.

He shoves forward, head pops in and clutches Sam so tight his eyes roll back, and Dean’s entire back quivers with the strain.

“Open up, baby,” Sam soothes, wants to break Dean for everything else but wants to be the one to glue him back to rights, as well.

He nudges in a little further, three more inches but there are still about six left and Dean’s pushing back tentatively, throat working around the spit Sam won’t allow him.

“You better remember this,” Sam groans, and then he releases Dean’s neck and all of those lovely sounds come spilling forth, nonsense and bitter honesty.

“Never--JesusJesusJesus, Sammy, never gonna stop, how much--how much you got to g-give me,” Dean gasps and Sam slots home, firm and thick, and Dean’s mouth falls open.

Sam spills the last of the lube between the length of his shaft and the grip of Dean’s ass and then proceeds to pound Dean so far into the makeshift bed that the pans in the kitchenette rattle.

“Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop,” Dean repeats, and Sam wants to say something wise, tell Dean he never will; he’ll always stay close, but all he’s got is this  _ now. _

Dean’s dick is still pressed between comforter and abdomen and Sam’s fucking too deep to be able to snake a hand down for help.

“Come on my dick,” Sam says, more hopeful than a real command, but he’s managed it before and he wants Dean’s first time to be just like that.

He knocks Dean’s head against a vinyl wall panel and hurriedly places his palm on the crown of hair, protects him from further insult.

Dean’s eyes are heavy with tears and his mouth is bleeding sluggishly and Sam comes at the sight, all that fox-tilted red where he’s bent his brother undone.

It comes, long and warm, splatters Dean’s insides like graffiti and comes trickling out along the side of Sam’s shaft.

It collects around the claret-burn of Dean’s rim, but he doesn’t pull out, watches the collection of his seed and runs his thumb across the stretch of skin.

Dean whimpers, high and needy and Sam reaches that same thumb down, pops it into Dean’s wound of a mouth and his brother comes on that.

Strawberry-vanilla mix together in a temporary truce and Sam drags his clean finger down Dean’s lips to his cheek and up to curl into his hair.

Sam’s still plugged and he watches Dean release, ass flex and hump against the ridge of his dick. Dean’s crying out his name on every aftershock and Sam doesn’t see how he’s supposed to leave.

That this is what he sent himself back for.

“You’re not gonna tell him,.” Sam says flatly, and Dean flinches, turns his face away from Sam’s eyes and he permits the loss of connection.

“I wanted--I want it alone,” Dean pauses, breath still choppy and disoriented. 

“I want it for myself,” he whispers, and Sam kisses him in the middle of his spine as he phases goodbye.

-

They’re still standing next to the Impala, arguing loudly, by the looks of it.

Sam’s shoving Dean back, thrusts Dean’s shoulder against the passenger window and Dean looks up, mouth tight.

Sam holds his fists by his side and the Sam-of-Now doesn’t need memory to know what Old Sam is saying.

“You’re not going. Cas is--Cas is burnt out, Dean. The Host is  _ dying.  _ They’re falling--they’re falling out of the fucking sky.”

Dean crosses his arms, stubborn to the last. “That’d make me their last hope, now wouldn’t it?” Old Sam pins Dean instantly, demons in his veins; Dean looks up at him, dismayed.

“You won’t let me--it’s out of the goddamned question for me to say yes, but you get to just, what, waltz right up to Lucifer and command his big brother to  _ take you _ ?”

Old Sam laughs, inelastic.

“They’re gonna think I’m full of shit,” Dean agrees, and Old-Sam shakes his head. “No. They’re gonna burn you up, inside out. Then there isn’t gonna be any war, because there’ll be no vessels left. Just me.”

Dean looks away and Old Sam blanches and then retches onto the earth, so swift that Dean goes glassy-eyed with concern.

“Sam? Sammy, Jesus, kid, you alright?” He covers Sam’s shoulders with his hands but Old Sam knocks him loose and stumbles away.

“Swear to God; I’ll kill you before I let you go out like that,” Old Sam promises, but then he stalks away, and Sam  _ remembers,  _ sunburn of righteous indignation that Dean would sacrifice himself like that, that he would consider leaving him alone, scorched by his own blood.

It’s just Dean by the car, the last time both of Them ever saw him, before Dean confronted the Devil himself and found his brother mangled at Satan’s feet, twisted corpse and no air.

It ended with a whimper; he understands.

He’s about to leave. He’s setting the keys on the hood and Dean’s about to march right down into the heart of Detroit and they’re never gonna see him again.

Sam steps into view; he’s crisp, brought himself home in style, all white from the corner of his lapel to the soles of his oxfords, smile congenial.

He’s holding both hands before him and Dean’s like prey; his ears perk up and then his breathing shallows, Adam’s apple clicking in ash-oxygen.

“I’m not lettin’ you take me,” Dean says, tired but firm, and Sam laughs.

“He won’t understand,” Dean continues, motions back to where Old Sam is a dot in the distance, young and naive, still believes that his brother is infallible in all things.

Sam reaches out a hand and Dean’s boots skid in the mud as he comes to rest against Sam’s chest.

Dean’s eyes are startled and summered in his young face and Sam cups one cheek so careful it might as well be marble.

“Who said anything about taking you?” Sam whispers, breathes the words right over Dean’s mouth. He tightens his grip around his brother’s waist and smiles brokenly, as fragile things are wont to do.

“We’re going together.”

If you asked him what traveling through time was like, he'd show you.

 


End file.
